home is the place
Thu May 17, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
home is the place
where the Atlantic is bitter cold
(I wade in wincing)
in spring and the wind sends
sidearmed oyster shells planing like gulls.
home is the place
where Mom hoots for our Red Sox,
provoking her favorite players by nickname,
and Dad doesn't know the difference
between shortstop and second base.
(he graciously
buys the beer anyway.)
home is the place
where my little brothers and I
still bicker over wiffle ball
and family history;
we try to impress each other
with second-hand understandings.
home is the place
where Dad walks around out of the bathroom naked
and no one says anything, because
what is there to say?
home is the place
where nobody compliments Andy
on his ability to roll cigarettes
even though he's gotten quite good at it.
(he needs to
brush his teeth more.)
home is the place
where gifts are clever
and Mom cries to family sweetness.
home is the place
where the New England swamp grows
bold, bloodsucking bugs
and proud, far-seeing trees
home is the place
where the crisp scent of sheets
and familiar cross-stitch on the walls
speak to my olding heart
where the Atlantic is bitter cold
(I wade in wincing)
in spring and the wind sends
sidearmed oyster shells planing like gulls.
home is the place
where Mom hoots for our Red Sox,
provoking her favorite players by nickname,
and Dad doesn't know the difference
between shortstop and second base.
(he graciously
buys the beer anyway.)
home is the place
where my little brothers and I
still bicker over wiffle ball
and family history;
we try to impress each other
with second-hand understandings.
home is the place
where Dad walks around out of the bathroom naked
and no one says anything, because
what is there to say?
home is the place
where nobody compliments Andy
on his ability to roll cigarettes
even though he's gotten quite good at it.
(he needs to
brush his teeth more.)
home is the place
where gifts are clever
and Mom cries to family sweetness.
home is the place
where the New England swamp grows
bold, bloodsucking bugs
and proud, far-seeing trees
home is the place
where the crisp scent of sheets
and familiar cross-stitch on the walls
speak to my olding heart
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